


Craving

by salutationtothestars



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Shot Collection, Past Relationship(s), Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:28:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26454928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salutationtothestars/pseuds/salutationtothestars
Summary: A collection of oneshots featuring Geralt and Regis, pre- and post-relationship.
Relationships: Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 50
Kudos: 121





	1. Corvo Nero

**Author's Note:**

> It took about thirty seconds for me to fall irrevocably in love with Regis, which, incidentally, is I think about how much time it took Geralt to do the same. Any small stories I do for them will end up here, as I don't believe I have the energy in me for a full length fic (but we'll see, won't we). The original title for this document was "[regis voice] i crave all the time constant craving," which... well. That about sums it up, doesn't it.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Movement in the trees across the way gets his attention, his heightened post-battle senses seeking out new threats as his body settles back down. Geralt squints, his heart and breaths slowing down to a crawl so he can focus, and he sees—a raven. Several ravens, actually, all moving in that restless way birds have, but very obviously watching him.

Geralt’s sword cuts through all but a fraction of the giant centipede roaring and spitting in his direction. The thing beats at his Quen barrier with countless flailing limbs. Its jaws snap at him, still moving, some of his blood lingering there where it had gotten in a lucky bite just before he could put the barrier back up after it broke. Sweating, panting, and furious, Geralt brings his arm back and takes another furious swing, aiming directly at the guts and chitinous shell just barely keeping it together. He severs the beast’s body in two uneven pieces, leaping back as the head, neck, and whatever uncategorized else lumped in with it crashes to the ground with a horrible sound. It continues to move after it dies, for a few moments, and Geralt’s mouth curls with disgust even as his body thrums with satisfaction.

The kill is always one of the best parts of being a witcher. Even if, emotionally, Geralt hates dispatching some of the unfortunate creatures he’s contracted to take out, his body thrives on the feeling of conquest. Victory hard won is victory earned.

Reaching into a pocket, Geralt finds his rag and shakes it loose, cleaning the mess off his blade quickly before sheathing it at his back, leaving his hands free. He pulls the glove off one hand and wipes his brow of sweat and further mess, pushing wet hair back against his scalp.

“Gross,” he says aloud, glaring down at the giant centipede.

Movement in the trees across the way gets his attention, his heightened post-battle senses seeking out new threats as his body settles back down. Geralt squints, his heart and breaths slowing down to a crawl so he can focus, and he sees—a raven. Several ravens, actually, all moving in that restless way birds have, but very obviously watching him.

He thinks about picking up a rock and throwing it in their direction. Not to hurt them, but to shake them off. He also thinks about the earful Regis would get if he tried it, and about the vampire’s teasing or, worse, his disappointment, so he decides against it. Instead, he rolls his eyes and steps around the giant centipede’s carcass to walk closer.

“What do you want?” he asks the biggest raven, sitting low on a branch. He almost thinks he recognizes it from one of the times before, but it’s hard to tell with a full conspiracy of all-black birds.

It tilts its head. Geralt wonders if the language barrier goes both ways, if it doesn’t understand human speech so much as Regis understands raven tongue.

“He send you after me?”

It blinks, almost too quick for the eye.

Geralt sighs, planting a hand on one hip. “Tell him to stop fussing. Killed worse beasts in my sleep. Most of those, without help.”

He expects the raven to fly away, carrying his message back to where Regis undoubtedly awaits with baited breath, hoping to proceed with the next part of his plan to find and subdue—placate—Dettlaff. It still watches him, though, as if waiting for him to turn and walk away, to prove that he’s through here. The thought rankles at him; he hates the idea of being monitored. He’ll be ready when he’s ready, through when he’s through, and Regis…

He understands Regis, really. Of course, Regis is eager to convince Geralt that killing Dettlaff the way the duchess commands will be unnecessary, but there’s something else in it, too. Geralt remembers all too well how awful it was to watch Regis die, to know that he was powerless to help someone he cared for very deeply. To feel that burden on his conscience. Having Regis back, now, is an unexpected privilege and one that Geralt does not think on lightly. He has to maintain many different loyalties to stay balanced above the pit of spikes that is Toussaint politics, but ultimately, he knows he would do a great deal to keep from losing his friend again.

Knowing Regis, and his propensity for true and deep feeling, he feels the same thing to an extreme Geralt might consider debilitating.

It softens him up, a little. Maybe more than he’d admit.

“All right,” he says. “Had enough of hunting, for now. Tell him I’ll be home soon.”

At that, the raven shakes itself and takes off into the pristine blue sky, its brethren following after. Freckles on the face of the heavens, or some shit like that. He’s spent too much time with philosophers.

Geralt watches them go, and it takes him some time to realize, while on his walk back to where he left Roach, that he’d thought not just of Corvo Bianco but of Regis’s musty graveyard as “home.” It sits strangely in his stomach, like he’d swallowed a brick, and he spends the rest of his time on the road thinking of what home could possibly mean to a witcher, and whether he’d live to see Corvo Bianco’s first wine making season under his name, and whether it’s strange that Regis has so quickly become a beacon to him the way Yennefer, Dandelion, and Ciri have been for years.

* * *

Regis watches the last splendors of sunset as he sits on top of a tomb, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. He likes to sit out here, in the fresh air, where the ravens can come and go with potential word of Dettlaff and updates on Geralt’s well-being and whereabouts. And Toussaint is beautiful, deserving of its reputation and the countless artists whose brushes have attempted to capture its natural magnificence.

Being honest, he has not much else to do besides read, and he spends so much of his time doing that his breaks feel earned and meaningful.. His line of research has already exhausted itself, leaving him with one real option he tries not to consider in his idle moments. He doesn’t like it, and Geralt will like it less, since it puts Regis at considerable risk in multiple ways. Drinking blood again, even a minute amount… well. It frightens him. The risk is worth the reward, no doubt, but it still frightens him.

Regis thinks of his mandrake brew, a bottle or two stashed inside the crypt, and considers going to get it, to forcibly turn his thoughts toward something else. Instead, he takes out the notebook he keeps with him for flashes of genius or idle thoughts and scribbles on a fresh page, giving the worry somewhere to go. Healthy outlets facilitate healthy minds. No one can say all higher vampires are maladjusted.

Dusk falls around him, the hundreds upon hundreds of stars beginning to make an appearance. They make it easy to forget again, to bring himself back to a place of relative comfort and content. He watches each one show itself, flashing brilliantly, and wonders if Geralt is camping out somewhere in the wilds and looking up at the same sky. Around him, fireflies come to life, like stars detached from the firmament to dance around his ears.

The cry of a raven catches his attention long before it swoops in for a landing. Regis moves his hand from where it’s been resting against the tomb and the raven settles there, giving itself a shake and preening a few feathers back into place before it looks up at him with intelligent eyes.

 _Hello_ , Regis says, extending his thoughts out to meet the bird’s. _You bring news?_

It does. It shows him scenes, flashes of Geralt as he rides, fights, speaks with strangers. The Path of a witcher, Regis thinks. He remembers fondly the adventures they had on the road, years ago, them and the rest of their friends. It had been an experience—not one necessarily meant for him, all the time, but something he treasured nonetheless.

Then, the bird pushes him one more thought. It comes to him in Geralt’s voice, muffled slightly and a bit more bird-like, but it’s very clear who’s speaking. His tone comes through perfectly, something that makes Regis smile.

 _Stop fussing_ , Geralt’s raven voice squawks. _Be home soon._

“Is that what he said?” Regis asks out loud. The raven puffs itself up and shakes, a response that says it’s only repeating what it was told. To assuage it, Regis puts out one finger and runs it up the bird’s chest feathers, giving it a careful scratch. “Where was he?”

The raven snaps at his finger, painlessly, and then climbs up to perch on the backs of his fingers. It’s got nothing more to share, no more knowledge of Geralt to give, and Regis laughs. Simple creatures, ravens, even for their brilliance.

He hears footsteps on the dirt road wending its way through the cemetery.

No one comes here, not even mourners, part of why he’d chosen this place as his hideaway. He nearly stands on impulse, to sequester himself quietly inside the crypt or to slip behind a tree, but instead he trusts that the human approaching is one he’ll want to see.

“Welcome back,” he says, when Geralt is close enough. Regis smiles at the sight of him—a real smile, broad and without any thought of hiding his teeth. Typically, he stays tight-lipped in mixed company, but his friend knows, and he grins, too. Involuntarily, it appears, because Geralt makes several attempts to school his face back to neutrality and eventually gives up in the time it takes him to walk down the hill.

“Glad to see me?” Geralt asks.

“Immensely.”

[ ](https://twitter.com/chococo_mao/status/1305228225434415104?s=20)

At Geralt’s approach, the raven flies away from Regis’s hand and makes for the trees, lost in the darkness even to inhuman eyes. Regis drops his hand down into his lap.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he says, by way of explanation. “It helps me to know how you are, since I can’t travel with you. Should you have need of me, I could be there as quickly as possible.”

Geralt sighs, a good-natured sound. He drops down to sit, not on the tomb across from Regis’s, but on the same one, sagging into himself like he’s tired. He likely is very tired. Sleeping rough takes a lot out of a person, especially after they’ve recently had an experience sleeping in a real bed. From what the ravens have told Regis of Corvo Bianco, it’s quite comfortable looking, if a bit dilapidated.

Of course, he is staying in a crypt. He has very little room to talk.

“I can take care of myself,” Geralt says, taking Regis by surprise. He’d grown so focused on the warm, breathing body next to his, thinking of the probable ache in Geralt’s bones, he’d almost forgotten himself. Their thighs nearly touch. “Much as I appreciate the proxy for company, it’s not necessary.”

“I know.”

Regis rubs his palms together, fusses with his gloves. He wonders if that’s all Geralt has to say on the matter, if he should have known better than to coddle a witcher, of all people.

A knee touches his, leather armor on thin legging, spine-tingling all the same as if nothing stood in their way. Geralt bumps him, nothing more, a show of joking camaraderie. It still makes Regis’s heart feel as if it’s stilled in his chest.

“Kind of nice, though. Being looked after.” Geralt turns to him and smiles. “Just not what I’m used to.”

Regis wishes he were brave enough to put a hand over Geralt’s where it rests on the stone, to touch his knee again, to swing one leg over Geralt’s thighs and— 

Clearing his throat, he settles for smiling back. He thinks he’s smiled more with Geralt than he has in the last year.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”


	2. Du Repos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regis moves again, pushing his nose further into Geralt’s skin. Something crawls down Geralt’s spine as Regis takes a long sniff.
> 
> “You still smell sweet,” he murmurs.
> 
> “Said ‘tasty,’ earlier.”
> 
> “It’s much the same.”

Geralt reaches for Regis’s hands first, hanging limp where they’re shackled. The claws longer than Geralt’s own forearm are gone, receded back into too-sharp fingernails, and the cut Geralt opened in Regis’s palm has healed. He breaks the restraints holding Regis in place, catches him by the wrist before he can slump backward, and the touch sparks something in Geralt that he hasn’t felt in… months. Not since Yen and Triss both left him, not since Dandelion put his palm at the base of Geralt’s spine and told him to cheer up, if he could. Not since Shani. It’s warmth, and concern, and not a little desire, and it startles him so badly he lets Regis drop again. Regis says something as he falls, a raspy reminder of what they’re here for, but Geralt barely hears it.

He’s always liked Regis, a great deal. This, though… this sacrifice, for him, in spite of how much it clearly hurts Regis. It’s awakened something in Geralt, strong and rushing through his blood like his heart is pumping just so Regis might notice it.

Shaking himself, Geralt moves to the cage door and wrenches it open, laying one palm against the back of Regis’s head to avoid letting him fall and hurt himself. It’s heavy, supported by nothing as Regis goes limp, clearly exhausted.

“Okay,” Geralt says, uselessly. “You’re gonna be fine.”

Regis struggles to keep his eyes open. Geralt maneuvers himself so that he can hoist Regis’s arm over his shoulder, taking on as much of his weight as he can. When Geralt stands, Regis’s legs move, but he’s weak and unsteady like a newborn foal. If not for Geralt, he might drop and not get up again.

Geralt gives him a little shake, just enough to jostle Regis back into awareness. “Hey, come on. You have to walk.”

After a few slow, staggering steps, Regis lurches suddenly to the side. Geralt’s grip tightens, trying to keep his balance, but where their sides are pressed together, he feels Regis’s torso seize with a sudden spasm. He pulls away just enough so that the bile Regis vomits onto the ground doesn’t spatter him, wrinkling his nose against the smell. This took more out of Regis than he’d expected it would.

Taking sharp, short breaths, Regis sags back into Geralt’s side and moans. “Fuck,” he says, as if that’ll make him feel better.

Maybe it does. He doesn’t vomit again, even as they climb the stairs back to where Roach is waiting, one hoof striking at the ground restlessly.

It takes some effort to get Regis up without letting him slip off the other side, practically boneless without aid, but finally Geralt swings up into the saddle behind him. They touch everywhere, chest against back, thigh to thigh, Geralt’s arms around Regis’s sides and pushing into his ribs. In the cage of his arms, Regis barely even sways once Roach sets off in a trot. Instead, he leans heavily backward, his breathing slowly elongating and growing deeper.

Turning his head, Regis touches his forehead to Geralt’s neck. It’s covered in sweat, as if he were fighting a fever, but his skin is cold. “Did you get it?” he asks. His lips brush against Geralt as he speaks.

Geralt almost lets go of the reins to touch the pouch where he stored the vial of Regis’s blood, but he imagines Regis slumping to one side and thinks better of it. Instead, he grunts.

“You’re in no state to prepare the concoction. Won’t be for a while. Think you could explain it to me?”

“Yes. I—”

Regis coughs, violently, spasming again. Geralt throws one arm around Regis’s waist, hoping to catch him in case he heaves over the side, and hopes he won’t get anything in Roach’s mane or on her saddle. Luckily, they all escape the indignity. Regis settles again, putting his head back where it rested before. It’s shockingly tender, intimate and vulnerable. Geralt gives him a gentle squeeze around the middle, almost reluctant to let him go again.

“Should talk less,” Geralt says. He tilts his head, just a little, and brushes the line of his jaw against Regis in a fond touch. “Advice I’d give you any day, but especially now.”

Regis huffs, but lets it go. They ride in silence for a short while, bumping up and down, Geralt’s arm around him and Regis’s nose in the junction between Geralt’s neck and his shoulder. Geralt turns everything over in his mind—the fact that Regis keeps giving Geralt more, and more, without even being asked. His assistance in everything, a brush with blood addiction relapse, possibly even the life of the vampire who saved him. Hours of torture, in a cage, out of his own mind and undoubtedly feeling horribly alone and uncomfortable.

“Stupid,” he says aloud, just barely. Another human, one without witcher senses, might not have heard him, but Regis sighs. He puts an arm over Geralt’s, moving it like a nerve’s been pinched and it’s little more than dead weight, but once it’s in place, he tucks a thumb into Geralt’s hand.

“I would do worse,” he says.

It’s simple, so far as confessions go, but Geralt thinks he understands. It’s for Dettlaff as much as it is for Geralt, and Regis has always been inclined toward martyrdom, whether he’d admit it or not.

Regis moves again, pushing his nose further into Geralt’s skin. Something crawls down Geralt’s spine as Regis takes a long sniff.

“You still smell sweet,” he murmurs.

“Said ‘tasty,’ earlier.”

“It’s much the same.”

Geralt snorts. “Bloodlust must have affected you more than you thought.”

Regis’s voice is getting stronger, and he’s supporting more of his own weight. Geralt can feel it in the stiffness of his spine, the feel of his hand over Geralt’s as the hold becomes more sure. Even so, he stays where he is, tucked in against Geralt like a lover, and Geralt doesn’t mind it much at all.

“Would it bother you,” Regis says, conversationally, unnecessary breaths brushing past the open collar of Geralt’s undershirt, “if I said you always smelled sweet to me?”

Geralt doesn’t even have to think. The answer presents itself immediately. “No,” he replies. “But you’d tell me if I was in danger here, right?”

He wonders if he imagines the brush of a sharp tooth against his skin, or if Regis does it to be cheeky. Could be either. He’s tired, himself. The night sky above them twinkles with a thousand stars, almost making him dizzy with the breadth of it, and he hasn’t had proper rest since he left Corvo Bianco several days prior.

Regis laughs, a short chuckle that turns into another cough. It doesn’t sound half as painful as the last. “Your sense of humor leaves a lot to be desired.”

Regis needs less help to dismount than he had to climb up, and he’s mostly able to walk by himself as they walk through the cemetery to the crypt he’s made his home. Still, he keeps one arm looped through Geralt’s, like they’re on an afternoon stroll in the palace garden. It keeps their steps locked in sync, and lets Geralt catch Regis when he experiences another brief wave of weakness, and it gives them an excuse to stay close.

Inside, Regis asks to be set down in the chair near his desk, where notes scribbled on loose parchment lie scattered. He seems better, but not by much. In this light, his skin is pale and mottled, veins visible, and the dark circles around his eyes look entirely like bruises. He watches quietly as Geralt pulls off his gloves and rolls up his sleeves.

“Tell me what to do,” Geralt says.

Regis walks Geralt through each step, at first reading his own writing. Later, he admits that his head is swimming again, and the nausea is returning, so he simply hands each page in its turn to Geralt. Geralt’s no stranger to brewing, even if this Resonance isn’t something he’s ever attempted before. In time, he settles into a sort of rhythm, lost in each movement and listening only to his and Regis’s breaths when they’re audible over the crackling of the fire, the hiss of bubbling liquid.

When it’s ready, he crouches by Regis’s chair. He asks why Regis would hurt himself the way he has, why he’s so determined to see this through to his own detriment when there might have been another way. If Regis were another kind of man, Geralt might have expected weakness, or wilting. Instead Regis gives him an answer in a proud, strong voice, and Geralt thinks of a thumb pressed against his palm.  _ If I had to do it again, I would.  _

_ I would do worse. _

He wonders if Dettlaff is worth Regis’s fealty. Could ask the same question about himself, but he’s afraid he already knows.

Geralt drinks the Resonance quickly, ignoring the taste and pushing away the thought of what’s in it. He’s gotten quite good at that, by now.

“How long does it take to work?” he asks Regis, pulling off his weapons belt and setting it on the ground beside Regis’s cot.

“Not long,” Regis says. He watches Geralt carefully, brow furrowed. “Please sit, or I’m afraid you might collapse.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, a little, but he gets to his knees in his meditation stance. Regis’s cot is there, in case he keels over, but so far he feels nothing. He wonders if he’s made it wrong… but then it kicks, coursing through his body, lighting his every vein on fire so that his body is made of nothing but pain. Regis’s expression goes sour—he must look awful, Geralt knows how afraid people are of him when the toxicity takes effect—but he has no time to be reassuring or to speak. Instead, he’s quickly overpowered by Dettlaff’s thoughts and memories, flashes of things Geralt never saw.

He feels his hand punch through a man’s rib cage. He feels each strike that separates de la Croix’s limbs from his body. His own arm stings and burns as he watches Dettlaff pick up the severed hand and throw it into the water.

When Geralt wakes, it’s violent. He jerks back into consciousness, body going tight, eyes snapping open. He’s looking up at the stone ceiling, a candle burning just out of sight, and his whole body aches as if someone’s picked him up and slammed him into the wall. Groaning, he tries to move his arms, to lift himself into a seated position, but something on his chest weighs him down and keeps him in place.

“Awake at last,” Regis says. His voice comes from somewhere above Geralt’s head, closer than Geralt expected.

He’s in Regis’s lap, he realizes. They’re resting on the cot, which smells musty and infrequently used, and his head is propped up on Regis’s thigh. One of the vampire’s long, steady hands rests over Geralt’s heart, the pressure he’d felt when he tried to get up, and the other—the other rests at his temple, the pad of a finger brushing gently over Geralt’s skin and into the hair there.

It’s not a flattering angle, Geralt thinks with a snort. He can see up Regis’s nose from here, and his chin is tucked into his neck, and he still looks fairly unwell. Geralt wonders if Regis can feel his pulse thrumming even through the armor, the undershirt, his flesh. All of it, a barrier against the way Geralt’s heart seeks out someone it holds dear, the same way it always does. His foolishness manages to surprise him, every time.

[ ](https://twitter.com/chococo_mao/status/1306714068967809024?s=20)

Regis brushes through Geralt’s hair again, touch so light as to barely be there. “Did you see something particularly funny?”

Geralt shakes his head. The movement makes him aware of a horrible headache, already receding but enough to make him a little sick. Regis must see his expression change. He scratches his nails against Geralt’s scalp.

“You didn’t seem well. You were…” He falters. “...Writhing, and speaking nonsense. I was afraid they were death throes. And then once you settled, you were so still… I thought it might assuage my fears if I could ascertain that your heart still beat for myself.”

“Explains the set-up,” Geralt grumbles. He closes his eyes and tips his head into Regis’s hand, to let him know that this is all right. When he takes a deep breath, he feels his chest creak and reaches up to touch his sternum, wincing, and his fingers brush against where Regis is holding him down. “Resonance sure wasn’t pleasant, but it worked.”

“What did you see?”

Geralt glosses over most of it, going into some details where they’re necessary. He tries to spare Regis the worst pains, but he sees his friend’s expression change as he discusses de la Croix’s murder. None of this can be easy to hear.

“The bootblack acted as if he knew Dettlaff,” Geralt says, mulling over what that must mean. They ought to go pay him a visit, once Geralt tracks down the boy’s stand, which wouldn’t be difficult. It’s the best lead they have.

Regis hums, pursing his lips. Geralt watches them move, a hint of fangs poking through the gaps between them. He remembers the tight smiles Regis used to share, how hard he fought to hide his secret. Besides Dettlaff, Geralt might be the only being alive who really  _ knows _ him. The comparison Regis drew between them rankled, at the time, but Geralt’s beginning to think he understands it more all the time.

Does Dettlaff look at Regis and wonder if his mouth would be soft? Does he already know?

“Ought to check it out,” Geralt says, once again putting those thoughts aside. It’s the wrong time. Certainly the wrong place. He’s worried Regis enough.

When he goes to sit up again, tensing, the hand on his chest grows heavy. Regis pins Geralt down effortlessly, making a soft chiding sound like a doctor might to his stubborn patient, but then he seems to remember himself and lessens the pressure.

“Sorry,” he says. “If you’re ready to go…”

“You coming with me?” Geralt asks.

Regis brushes another strand of hair from Geralt’s forehead. “I don’t yet feel strong enough to venture out.”

“Strong enough to keep me here.”

Laughing, Regis shakes his head. “I know you too well to believe I could keep you from doing whatever it is to which you’ve set your mind. Not even if I were fully recovered.”

Geralt moves the hand he’s left resting on his chest, bumping it more purposefully against Regis’s. Their fingers overlap, just slightly.

“That’s fair,” he says. “Feel sort of like shit myself. Could rest a while longer.” Turning his head, he looks down at the cot out of the corner of one eye, dislodging Regis’s hand from where it’s been playing with his hair. “Could also move off your bed so you have room.”

“No,” Regis sighs.

As if unable to keep away for very long, his fingers creep their way back to Geralt, pads brushing against the grain of shaved short sides. Geralt’s eyes slip closed against his will.

“I think,” Regis adds, “I’m very comfortable here.”


	3. Verità in Cantina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hesitates, for a moment, probably casting about for the right words. Regis is effusive to a fault, but he’d never hurt anyone purposefully unless they deserved it. Certainly, Geralt thinks, he wouldn’t want to hurt him. 
> 
> Finally, Regis adds, “There’s no one else?”

Geralt is _not_ pleased to see Regis arrive at Orianna’s.

Granted, he should have known better than to expect Regis might stay in one place and wait for him, but to turn up in the middle of the investigation, in front of the duchess, with Dettlaff? It’s too much. He might be angry if he wasn’t somehow simultaneously unsurprised.

Thankfully, Anna Henrietta doesn’t seem to have heard anything of Regis’s untimely death, and she also seems to find Dettlaff charming. She apparently misses the import of Orianna’s pointed comments and questions, very clearly loaded with double and triple entendres, and the five of them get through the initial flush of their conversation with minimal trouble.

Dettlaff is… a strange presence, after their initial encounter. Where before he was a flurry and rage of slashing claws, of guttural growls and monstrously elongated teeth ready to tear out Geralt’s throat, the man before him now is polite and reserved. A bit distant, although it reads as shyness rather than anything more off-putting. He mentions apologizing, and is calm and collected, and Geralt can’t be sure, but he thinks he feels something thrumming between Dettlaff and Regis. A bond, like Regis had mentioned, like Regis’s presence is part of why Dettlaff behaves and speaks the way he does. It isn’t controlling, but affectionate. Regis clearly thinks the world of him, possibly even loves him.

Geralt feels his mouth twitch at the thought.

It isn’t his business. He’s had his share of lovers, some simultaneously and some not, and if Regis has…

Orianna thankfully interrupts that train of thought.

“I believe we’re running out of wine,” she says primly, with an air of controlling the conversation. “I should go to the cellar, bring another bottle.”

Geralt pushes up out of his chair. He can’t sit here in this stuffy outfit and listen to them talk about low cut dresses. “Let me go,” he says. On a whim, he adds, “Wanna help, Regis? Know your wine a lot better than I know mine.”

Regis was supposed to wait at Dettlaff’s hideout, after all. Certainly he wasn’t supposed to bring the Beast of Beauclair to speak with the woman who’s after his head. They ought to discuss it now, before Regis slips away from him totally to stay at his vampire friend’s side.

Regis nods, promises their return in an amiable tone, and rises to join Geralt.

Geralt has no idea where he’s going, so he lets Regis take the lead since he’s clearly been here before. As they walk, he chatters, in a shockingly good mood—and again, Geralt feels that twist in his gut, the downturn of his lips, the hot knife of jealousy that he actually manages to avoid, more often than not. He doesn’t get like this. Possessiveness was always Yen’s thing, where Geralt is happy just to give what he has to the people who want it. The complicated nature of maintaining one relationship over an extended period when he’s so frequently on the move and separated from the people he cares about has never appealed to him.

Still, it’s almost hard to see Regis like this, and that makes him feel like a tremendous ass.

When they’re far enough away, surrounded by bottles and casks, Geralt turns and cuts through Regis’s incessant talk, the way he’s done dozens of times before.

“You crazy?” he asks. “Bringing him here?”

Regis turns slightly away and runs one long finger over a bottle of wine, tracing the edges of its embossed label. Must be expensive. Geralt sees right through it as a deflection; the slight furrow of Regis’s brow tells him that he feels incredibly guilty. Good. At least he knows he fucked up.

“Geralt,” Regis sighs, “allow me to explain…”

“You weren’t supposed to go anywhere, let alone bring Dettlaff along. I thought you’d be keeping him out of trouble.”

“But that is precisely what I’m doing.” Regis puts the bottle down again and leans one hand heavily against the shelf. “He understands now what you’re trying to do, that you’ll help him rather than hunt him down and stick his head on a pike. Or, try to, anyway. He doesn’t want to kill anyone else; Dettlaff simply wants to find his Rhena. Your goals have aligned.”

“Yeah,” Geralt snorts. “For now. But when we find her?”

Regis shrugs. “Then he’ll dispatch the men who kidnapped her. After that, there will be no more reason for bloodshed.”

Geralt grunts, a low sound that’s very clear shorthand for _Don’t believe that for a second_. Regis picks up on it easily. 

“Geralt,” Regis says again, this time in an almost offended tone. “Do you not trust me to tell you the truth?”

Folding his arms across his chest, Geralt looks down at the tiled floor. “Meant what I said back there, about you. Doesn’t mean I trust Dettlaff.”

Regis moves quietly, most of the time. Part of that is due to who he is, part of it is due to what he’s taught himself. Geralt’s senses are enough to pick him up or out of a crowd, most of the time, but he’s never tricked himself into believing anything other than the truth—he hears and sees and senses exactly what Regis wants him to. It’s a courtesy, nothing more. So, when one moment he thinks Regis is several feet away and up against a shelf and the next there’s a hand around his wrist, he isn’t surprised. He feels his pulse jump, quickening for a moment with uncontrollable adrenaline, but he doesn’t flinch or otherwise react. 

Even so, he thinks Regis must know. His eyes are fixed squarely on Geralt’s, but his fingers are right where they might best feel the thrum of Geralt’s heart.

“But I do,” he says. “With my life. And if you trust in me, then believe that I know Dettlaff well enough to be certain he’s in earnest. We want nothing more than to see an end to this whole bloody business.”

“And then what?” Geralt asks, before he can stop himself.

To his dismay, Regis lets go of Geralt’s wrist and wraps it around the strap of his bag, like he always does when he’s not sure what to do with his hands. “I’m afraid I don’t understand your meaning, my friend.”

“After this is done. What happens after that?”

“I suppose things shall go back to the way they were before,” Regis says, shrugging. “I’ll resume my restful recovery, Dettlaff shall disappear from the public consciousness of Beauclair, and you… well.” He chuckles, fondly, and it makes something like mud slip down the length of Geralt’s spine, slow and cool, sticking to him as it goes. “I shan’t presume what you’ll do next. You’re always full of surprises. You might settle down at your vineyard, now that you have a more permanent place to call home, or perhaps the lovely Yennefer might beckon you to—”

That feels more like being plunged into ice cold water.

“That’s over,” Geralt says, too bluntly. It’s been a while, but that doesn’t mean the thought hurts any less. He can’t hear more than Regis has already said. “Has been for a while.”

Regis’s smile crumples into a sorrowful expression. “I had wondered,” he says softly. “I’m sorry. And…”

He hesitates, for a moment, probably casting about for the right words. Regis is effusive to a fault, but he’d never hurt anyone purposefully unless they deserved it. Certainly, Geralt thinks, he wouldn’t want to hurt him. 

Finally, Regis adds, “There’s no one else?”

Regis knew about Yennefer, of course, and Fringilla. He might have had an inkling that Geralt and Dandelion sometimes shared more than a bedroll, although they had never openly discussed it, and of course there had been Triss and Shani. All of them something more than just a physical diversion, in their own ways, and all of them lost to Geralt, too. Not even brothels hold much appeal for him, now—he is older, and wiser, and too tired, and has known too much of love to look for something else even if it hurts him.

“Not right now,” Geralt says.

“That’s unlike you.”

“Things change. I changed.”

They still stand close together, alone in Orianna’s wine cellar, Dettlaff and the duchess alone and conversing as if they aren’t enemies. Geralt glances at the bottles. They ought to find a suitable one and bring it back; it’s time to get things moving again and this is not an opportune moment to have intimate, vulnerable conversations. Even so, the air changes between them. 

Regis holds himself in an unassuming way, but his posture is always impeccable, upright and dignified. Despite that, he seems to draw up even higher, to make himself that little bit taller. It doesn’t do much to bring him near Geralt’s full height, but he takes notice of it just the same, that and the way Regis’s nostrils flare. He remembers what Regis had admitted, before, that he liked the way Geralt smelled. The thought should set him ill at ease, but as with everything else that comes with Regis, he doesn’t mind. He likes it.

“You have changed,” Regis says on an exhale, stepping closer. One more step and he’d practically be in Geralt’s arms. “Our years apart may have been painful, but they’ve done much to take you from a good man to a great one.”

“Stop it,” Geralt says. There’s no bite to it, just an exaggerated exasperation.

“A great man,” Regis repeats himself. With only a quick glance from Geralt’s face to the side to betray his nerves, he lifts a hand and sets it in the center of Geralt’s chest, pressing against the brocaded suit jacket Geralt had bought at the duchess’s urging. His nails scrape against the fabric. “With a heart to match.”

Geralt could take his face in both hands and kiss him, right here. Right now. He wants it terribly, to give in to what he’s certain is sparking between them, but he thinks again of Dettlaff, of the ring Regis had given him and whether it might be on his finger once again now that they’ve found each other. It burns in his gut, up into his throat, fire from the inside out, and until it’s quenched he can’t overstep.

Regis moves his hand, dragging his palm gently down along the line of Geralt’s sternum. It stops over his stomach, too low for propriety’s sake, and Geralt feels that burn in his gut shift.

“You may ask me, you know,” Regis murmurs. He flexes his fingers again, pressing them through the doublet into Geralt’s skin. “It’s all right.”

Of course he knows. He always knows.

“Are you fucking him?” Geralt asks, his voice coming out as an involuntary low grumble. It’s not really what he meant to ask, and he suspects Regis knows that… but it’s so much easier to phrase it this way. Especially with Regis’s hand less than a foot from his cock.

Regis laughs, a short lived chuckle. He doesn’t sound offended, but he says, “How crass. What business would it be of yours if I were?”

Geralt wonders if he imagines the increased pressure on his stomach, or if Regis is trying to push him backwards. He takes a chance, takes a small step, and Regis follows him just as closely as ever. His hand never moves. 

“None. But you said I could ask.”

“I did indeed.” Regis leads him back another step, then another, almost like a dance. “Dettlaff only has eyes for his Rhena, now. I had thought, before… but it doesn’t matter.”

Geralt’s heel hits the wall before his back does, but then he’s there, up against stone. Regis looms over him, somehow, even from his position, fully in control of the situation and clearly aware of it.

“The answer to your question,” he murmurs, leaning in slightly so his nose is close to Geralt’s neck, “is no. We are bound by blood, and I care a great deal for him, but that is all there is to it.”

Geralt can’t hold it in any longer. He lets out a soft grunt, sounding too much like a groan to his own ears, and he reaches for Regis’s waist with one hand.

“Not here,” he says, even as he takes hold of Regis’s belt, the implements there clacking together and jingling. He tries to drag Regis closer, to pull their bodies together, but Regis stays still.

“No.” He smiles indulgently at Geralt, eyes soft, before he leans in even closer and presses the bridge of his nose to Geralt’s neck. His skin is cool, where Geralt thinks he might sweat through these expensive clothes, and he keeps his hand between them like a barrier. “Not here. Not now.”

They stay like that, connected and not, and Geralt wonders guiltily what it might feel like if Regis took advantage of their position and took a bite—just one. It wouldn’t even have to be deep enough to bleed, he just… he wants, terribly, and he hasn’t wanted like this in a while. It strikes him, every time, how Regis awakens something in him that he thought might never happen again.

Regis pulls back and looks into his eyes again, too close and not close enough. For a moment, Geralt wonders at the thought that Regis knows nothing of his thoughts and wouldn’t dip in to check them even if he could—they’re simply together, and there’s trust between them. That alone is enough to make Geralt want to push that little bit further and touch his mouth to Regis’s, but they can’t get lost, here. There’s too much to do.

“You are a wonder,” Regis says softly. Then he retreats, removing his hand, and leaves Geralt sagging slightly against the wall to grab a wine bottle. He seems to pick it at random, but Geralt expects him to know what he’s doing. Better than Geralt would, anyway.

Straightening up and leaving the wall, Geralt brushes invisible dirt away from the front of his doublet. “Still pissed at you.”

“Of course,” Regis says absently. He’s looking at the wine label.

“How do you know Orianna, anyway?” Geralt asks. He has his suspicions, but he ought to ask. “Can she be trusted?”

“Oh,” Regis sighs, “I’ve known her quite a long time. Longer than I could say.”

“That isn’t an answer. And the coy thing you’re trying isn’t working; obvious she’s also a vampire.”

Regis grins. “You do have a sharp mind, Geralt.”

“Not hard to guess when you’re dropping hints like breadcrumbs.”

They talk a little more as they make their way back to the table, discussing the new information Anna Henrietta’s given Geralt, the latest update to his plans, and again, Geralt asks that Regis keep Dettlaff away.

“I mean it, this time,” he says, shooting Regis a pointed look. “Need to make sure both women are safe. Can’t guarantee that if Dettlaff is there and goes into one of his rages.”

“All right,” Regis sighs. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Don’t I always?”

Regis’s retort gets lost before it can make its way from his mouth, as they emerge back into the outdoor dining area. Dettlaff and the duchess are engaged in conversation, and beyond them, Orianna leans back in her chair and watches with a strange half-smile. Geralt’s eyes meet hers, the smile grows wider, and just like that, she knows he knows. Hopefully that doesn’t come back to bite him in the ass. It probably will, eventually, but he can still hope.

“You’re back!” Anna Henrietta says, her tone warmed by wine and good conversation. She looks more at ease than she has the whole time he’s been in Toussaint. “It took you long enough.”

Regis, lagging somewhat behind Geralt, picks up a little speed. He makes a move to the table, brushing past Geralt, and as he goes, he puts his hand at the small of Geralt’s back. It’s supposed to look like he’s gently moving his friend out of the way, polite and unassuming, but Geralt again feels his sharp nails scrape against the brocade.

 _Later_ , it says to him, as Regis makes a comment about the wine. _Later_.

He hopes that’s a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait! Between general life stuff, work, the pandemic, and politics, things have been weird! My art partner had to bow out for now, which I respect wholeheartedly, and I hope y'all understand and enjoyed this update just the same :)

**Author's Note:**

> Art by @chococo_mao on twitter. Click the photo to see the post!


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